


nothing but sweet talk

by raumdeuter



Category: Men's Football RPF, Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter
Summary: “Are you aBayernman?” says Bogdanow’s sidekick.“No,” says Fuchs. “No, not at all. I own several players on both teams.”





	nothing but sweet talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunafish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunafish/gifts).



Lewandowski’s just made it 2-1 when the Bogdanow boy and his sidekick walk in, which in hindsight should have been some sort of sign.

“Volume down,” says Fuchs, turning to face them, and the roar of the crowd onscreen fades away.

“Are you a _Bayern_ man?” says Bogdanow’s sidekick. Fuchs has seen a lot of them, and this one plays the part well: equal parts indignation and disappointment, a look like a wary dog on his narrow face. He’s an ultra, maybe. Hertha? Or maybe Union. It’d explain the disappointment, anyway. A sentimentalist. Sidekicks always are.

“No,” says Fuchs. “No, not at all. I own several players on both teams.”

It’s such a bold-faced perversion of the truth that for once he’s grateful for the distraction of the match: two separate flickers of annoyance at the back of his mind, but that’s all. “I’m interested in talent, not games,” he adds, just to prod the hornet’s nest, and just for a moment he smells wet grass and sweat, sees floodlights and a crowd like an ocean, feels a sharp elbow in his (their) (his) side.

Fuchs shakes it off. “That’s why you’re here,” he says, with finality, and gestures to the bar.

He’s been doing this long enough that he can tune out the clamor that continues in his head, long after the game is over.

 

\---

 

He’s not lying when he tells Bogdanow about the capital to be found in Berlin, about the profit flowing into his coffers like lifeblood from every corner of the world.

It’s only that Bogdanow doesn’t realize he means it figuratively, too.

 

\---

 

Lila bids him good night with an ironic twist of her lips. She’s suspicious, of course--her cluster’s suspicious--has been for years. Not that it matters. She’s not the only one who has a history.

He supposes a natural sensate might think it terribly lonely. Fuchs wouldn’t know. He considers himself a self-made man in more than one respect, and in any case has always valued business partners over friends.

“I take it you enjoyed the match,” says Lewandowski, as Fuchs comes back inside.

He’s leaning against the bar with a nonchalance that would be infuriating if Fuchs weren’t already used to it. Behind him Torres is slouched on the sofa, looking remarkably put out for a man who’s just advanced to the Champions League final.

“Very much,” says Fuchs. He follows Lewandowski’s unsubtle stare to the bottle of Glenfiddich still on the counter. “Drink?”

“If you can spare a drop,” says Lewandowski, with affected nonchalance.

“Anything for the man who made me richer tonight,” says Fuchs, and reaches for a glass. “Fucking great atmosphere tonight, wasn’t it?”

“I wish you wouldn’t Visit during games,” says Torres petulantly.

Lewandowski quirks an eyebrow at him. “And I wish you wouldn’t miss pens when we all have money riding on them, but here we are.”

“Says the team who got knocked out on away goals.”

“ _I’m interested in talent,_ ” says Lewandowski, in a passable imitation of Fuchs’s voice, “ _not games,_ ” and Torres rolls his eyes and tosses a seat cushion at him before vanishing.

“Ignore him,” says Lewandowski. “He’ll come around in a day or two.”

Fuch smiles. “I know he will.”

He swirls the scotch in its glass. This, more than anything else, is what keeps the Visits coming. Slowly, not looking away, Fuchs tips his head back, letting the fire-smooth liquor burn its way down his throat, and Lewandowski’s eyes drift shut in obvious pleasure.

“So you think you have him?” he says after a moment, not opening his eyes. “The sensate.”

Fuchs shrugs. “I have his friend, which for all intents and purposes appears to be the same thing.”

He moves to take another sip, as much to forestall any further questions as anything else, but this time Lewandowski’s eyes open, and one hand shoots out and grabs Fuchs’s wrist.

He doesn’t move as Lewandowski scrutinizes him. There’s always been something slightly unsettling about being trapped under his gaze. He’s the only one of his cluster who ever visits: Fuchs knows, vaguely, about a rising businesswoman in China, an English politician, but that’s all. He gets the feeling the rest are in similar positions: primed and ready for something, he doesn’t know what.

The first time Lewandowski Visited he’d sworn up and down he had nothing to do with BPO. For some reason, it hadn’t made Fuchs feel any better.

“Okay,” says Lewandowski at last, and exhales. “Okay. Fuck, that’s good.”

He’s still holding on to Fuchs’s wrist, his thumb rubbing casual circles against his pulse, an insistent reminder of the other reason he Visits. Even now Fuchs isn’t sure why; he doesn’t flatter himself into thinking it’s for his looks, and all that shit about fucking your cluster being the worst kind of vanity doesn’t seem like it’d bother Lewandowski much. Still. Gift horse, and all that.

“Wait,” he says, and Lewandowski quirks an eyebrow.

When he pulls the Rausch bag out from behind the bar Lewandowski doesn’t say anything at first. But he tenses, then leans forward imperceptibly, then, after a moment, starts to laugh.

“You’re a romantic after all,” he says.

“I’m a realist,” says Fuchs primly. “These are for myself.”

“I’m sure you say that to every sensate with a diet plan,” says Lewandowski. But he shuts up well enough when Fuchs slips a praline into his mouth, and he tastes of chocolate and hazelnut for the rest of the night.


End file.
